Howl
by SukiLovelace
Summary: When Ramsay found her, she stood naked in the forest, hair wild, feet blooded, eyes confused and scared. She made to step towards him, and crumpled, hitting the floor with a soft thump. (Ramsay x Sansa)


**Hello! This is my first ever real piece of edited writing that I've gone through with. I'm not sure whether to continue or where this would even go plot-wise but enjoy some Sansa x Ramsay, the pairing that was taken from us too soon.**

It was a hunger inside her, sharp as a blade. A hunger….she could feel it. It was food she needed, prey, a doe that stank of fear, or an elk, proud and defiant. She needed to kill and fill her belly with fresh meat and hot dark blood. Her mouth watered at the thought.

It was a long moment before she understood what was happening, and when Ramsay found her, she stood naked in the forest, hair wild, feet blooded, eyes confused and scared. She made to step towards him, and crumpled, hitting the floor with a soft thump. It was that noise that forced Ramsay into action, pulling his wolf pelt cloak around her, lifting her and bringing her into the castle.

The signs were small at first, barely detectable. Long bouts of silence, unseeing stares, whimpers in her sleep. These were to be expected, having been made a Lannister, and now a Bolton. Now, as they shared more time together, it escalated to dirt and leaves in the bed and the chambers, and bloody footprints making tracks throughout the castle.

At first, he delighted in her fragile state. He had the most powerful woman in the North, one who denounced him as a lowly bastard, humiliating him, whimpering in fear and kicking out in her sleep as she fought her demons. How the honourable Starks had fallen. He watched her, growing hard as he drew comparisons between her and Reek, his favourite pet.

But then his father had heard whispers from bannermen and lords that Ramsay was the reason for the deep set purple, almost black, circles under her eyes, and for the gapes in her gowns where she had become thin and weak. They were sure to rebel if the symptoms of mistreatment remained for much longer.

And so, Ramsay played the dashing, polite lord, ordering baths filled with warm water and scented oils, along with sweet and rich foods to their chambers frequently to soothe her, to make her more inclined to trust him, and not Baelish, as time went on. Not long after, Ramsay was awoken by a twig poking him in the side, and realised the bed was missing his wife.

Believing her to have attempted an escape, he dressed in his thick winter clothes, and tracked her through the forest, his bow ready, an arrow notched in preparation for her foolish accomplice.

He found no accomplice, but he did locate his wife, hurriedly following small bloodied tracks that she had left behind. Her pale, naked flesh flowed in the moonlight that came through the trees. Her hair was wild, long and tangled, and the mussed strands covered her breasts from his view. She noticed another presence, and slowly looked up at him, eyes wide and unsure. She made to step towards him, but exhaustion seemed to overcome her, and she fell into a pool of moonlight.

Ramsay looked at her for a long moment, watching as her breast moved with each breath. _Alive_ , _at least_ , he thought, undoing the clasp of his cloak and covering her, drawing her up into his arms – as close as possible to his body so that she may leech the heat.

Miraculously, he makes it back to their chambers without being seen, the castle quiet and stagnant. He enters the chambers, forcefully opening the door, ignoring Reek's whimpers, and placing her gently on the bed, leaving the cloak around her, and tucked the blankets around her, as his mother had once done for him.

She was not filled up with the sight of him, the way she had seen her friends fill up, like silk pouches, like wineskins. Instead, he seemed to land heavily within her, like a black stone falling. He watched her endlessly, she was not permitted to move from the bed, the most movement that was allowed was to move to the chamber pot, other than that, he didn't let her out of his sight.

Reek flittered around his master, but was more cautious around her, it seems parts of Theon still remained in that husk. Ramsay stayed on a chair, using the bottom of the bed to push his foot from, rocking the chair on its back legs. Sometimes he worked at a piece of wood that had been found in the chambers, flaying the bark until the surface was smooth, other times he cleaned his fingernails with the knife, but most commonly he sat and stared, silent and unmoving.

But, he has not hurt her, has not forced himself on her again. He doesn't complain about the cold in the room; she hadn't allowed any maids to start a fire. Lighting a fire is an act of renewal, of beginning, and she doesn't want to begin, she wants to continue. No: she wants to go back. She wishes that she could go back. She would be kinder to Arya, stand up for her rather than try to earn the favour of the other girls. She would hold father tighter, tell him of everything she knows, and stop him ever attempting to go to King's Landing. She would have paid closer attention to mother as she talked to the lords and ladies that visited, noted how well she played the game. She would be kinder to Theon, and to Jon. She would hold everyone closer and disregard her songs and notions of love, the only love she ever needed was that of her family.

Ramsay soon grew frustrated, the novelty of seeing her in the forest wearing off. He began to wonder what she would look like over the top of his knife during a hunt, whether her skin would still glow as he separated it from her bones. He imagined her running through the forest, savage and free, and he pictured himself cornering her, tackling her, fighting with her, having her submit beneath him.

These visions had shifted the more he observed her. In his imaginings now, her hips would snap up to meet his, she would mewl and growl in his ear, forcing him on his back so she can ride him hard. He couldn't keep her in this room forever, he realised, hearing his father's voice in his head. _The lords are talking, you have displeased them with your treatment of the Stark, and so they are displeased with having you at Winterfell. Fix it._ He looked at Sansa, who was curled up in the cloak and blankets, dozing lightly. She had not dressed since that night, nor bathed, and her scent hung heavy in the room.

He sent for a maid, the first to enter the room in days, to care for her, allowing the maid to linger in the room only long enough to see Sansa sleeping, alive and well. Ramsay had no doubt that she was spying for his father, telling him everything she had seen in the room Ramsay was guarding with a careful eye. _The pack survives, but the lone wolf dies_. Maybe this was the death of a lone wolf in an empty den, without her pack and without companionship.

Sansa was getting better, slowly, those days she spent catching up on sleep agreed with her, and she looked brighter for it. She began to bathe regularly, but didn't wear her hair up in braids anymore, preferring to feel it around her shoulders. She still didn't speak, only stared at Ramsay, coldly, like the first time they had met. She didn't dress either, spending her time either naked in the bed with the cloak around her or wandering the chambers in just the cloak. If she noticed that Ramsay was constantly hard around her now, staring at her with lustful eyes, she said nothing, gave nothing away.

The first time she spoke to him, her voice was cracked, deep from lack of use. Ramsay was shocked to hear her voice, expecting her to be silent forever.

"How does Winterfell fare?"

 _Of course. Her first words in nearly a fortnight and she asks about the health of Winterfell. A dutiful lady through and through, is my little lamb_. Ramsay continues to observe her, and she stares back for a long moment, holding his gaze.

"The repairs have begun," He states, "Winterfell shall be back to its former glory." He mocks her slightly, mocks that it's his family repairing the castle, not hers, never hers.

"You're talking about buildings, and even that may take years. _People_ don't recover as easily."

"Clearly."

The lords and bannermen demanded that Sansa was to be seen out of her rooms, and sought assurance that she was unharmed, and at this stage, alive. Roose placated them all, saying she was ill, overcome with fever from her long travel through the cold, and that Ramsay didn't want to aggravate her sickness.

Sansa sung such a pretty song when she was seen at a feast, telling the lords she was ever grateful for their concerns, putting the sickness down to nothing more than a severe cold due to her unfavourable travelling conditions these past months. Her mouth was moving, but Sansa knew that it was Margaery's words that left her lips, tweeting for the Boltons; a perfect little dove. Ramsay, needing to be seen as a caring husband, took to plating her food up for her, adding plenty of fattening foods and rich deserts to her plate. She looked at him, and their eyes met as he leaned over her plate, their noses almost close to touching. _Oh, how we are going to hurt each other_ , she thought, a small smile on her lips.

Roose and Walda choose that moment to announce a child, one they are sure is a boy, and Ramsay's smile soon drops, and his fingers tighten on her arm. There is something brittle within him that is sure to break before it would bend, and it was up to her to shield him. She had only just returned home, she could not afford for her to be married again, in all likelihood to Roose. She shivers, wishes them well, and tells them she will pray for a strong heir. She sings her song, dutifully and cleverly, but her mind works endlessly, looking for a solution.

They bathe together that night, Ramsay obviously trying to initiate a coupling in order to secure on heir of their own. Sansa knows that is pointless, the heir will be born before their child, and would still have a stronger claim, even if it was only weeks that separated them. She closes her legs as he runs his hands further up her leg, and she fixed him with a flat stare. How could a person be caught that way, in an instant, by a glance, the lift of an eyebrow, the curve of an arm? But he was. He was a part of her, and very rapidly, she was becoming a part of him.

He chuckles, withdrawing his hand from her upper thigh, but continues to touch her, rubbing small, firm circles into her ankle.

"What shall we do?"

"Do?"

Sansa sighed, wiggling her toes and disturbing the water, watching the ripples spread over to her side of the bath.

"When Walda gives birth, there will be no need for me." Ramsay looks nonplussed by this, and blinks slowly at her. "Or for you."

The next time Ramsay finds Sansa in the woods, blood drips from her mouth and fingers.


End file.
